Vignette VI

So it is farewell, Loser.

                    The Loser like no other.

                                               But even Losers must make do.

                                               Make friends with Disaster.                                               

Misfortune is your cousin.

Leave your regrets behind.  

Tomorrow, it could be You.

NE NE NA NA NA NA NU NU

That's it!  That's exactly what I've been looking for!  All this time cut off from the land of the living!

I consider the 2-Tone movement of the 1980's to be part of my musical heritage.  My history.  My music.  My noise!  I managed to pick up the companion LP to Dance Craze, basically a film made for, all about and jam packed with 2-Tone.  I had literally forgotten what this stuff does, and it changes my life every time.  Live Ska is a gift from Heaven above, my lifeblood and my saviour.  I mean, one you accept Suggs as your lord...

I can't even remember when I really started listening to Ska.  It was that long ago...maybe about 15 year back?  You know, dribs and drabs every so often, I'd seek out this incredible...thing, basically so I could shout and jump around because I was a hyperactive little shit.  The real moment came when I was about 8, and Suggs presented a radio programme on BBC Radio 2, all about the origins of this wonderful stuff.  I was swept up by the first wave.  First Wave Ska is brilliant.  It's incredible and full of movement and energy and dynamic &c &c.  The only thing is it's a little slow in comparison these days, but not worth any less.  

However, the real deal for me isn't even the first steps into the 4th Wave (I do love Streetlight Manifesto though), with their tight horn sections and catchy hooks.  No sir.  Not quite the best.  My heart will always belong to the 2nd wave, to the Rudies and Skinheads of the 2nd wave, 2-Tone.

I'll never forget reading in the Leicester Mercury about Laurel Aitken's death, you know?  This is the guy who basically brought Ska to this island with a little brown suitcase full of records.  Not only that, but he was a damn fine musician as well, still playing packed-out shows until sadly, ill health got the better of him, and ultimately lead to his death.  Where were you when JFK died?  Princess Diana?  No?  Definitely one of those moments.  Sat in Aunt Lil's front room, sat on the floor next to the table, suddenly happening upon the obituary page.  Man.

Anyway.  I put my record on.  And the switch flicked in my head.  Again.  This is the greatest music I have ever heard.  Like, ever.  No take backsies.  I would throw it all in in a heartbeat to play this stuff for real.  I don't care.  No, I do care!  Dance and shout and sing at the top of your voice.  Sleep all day, it's the (DU DU DA DA DA!) only way.  I love Ska.  Bish bash bosh.  This is my music, it gives me back to myself after everything that happens.  I'm off to town in a bit to meet up with The Drum, but I shall trawl the charity shops for more Ska because after all, one half of me is black, and the other half is white.  And we're together again.

Now go away and listen to Nite Klub, and Monkey Man, and Night Boat to Cairo and Lip Up Fatty and anything else by anyone else.  Just do it.  Don't regret it.  What is life without regrets?  More importantly, what is life without Ska?  Disaster.

Catharsis

The answer's all in the title for this one.  This week's question, therefore is "Why do I do this?"

"This", of course is my blog.  True to type I do a lot of ranting, mostly about the way my love life is as dead as the hope that it might improve.  Man am I tired.  Everybody hides and everybody goes away.  See III-V for more on that story.  I haven't done toooooo much about the poor end of the stall, but choir is often the least of my concerns, paling in comparison to my financial situation for starters.  There was the odd comment about the junior handshake brigade, but I think that's all I can be bothered to say on that.  THEIR LOSS.

Generally, things are ok.  There, I said it.  My life isn't that bad.  I have a bit of spare change to my name, I eat whenever I want to, and I have a stable back line of bestest buddies behind me for when I inevitably fall.  In keeping me going on this mortal plane, The Doctor, The Drum, The Bishop, Slam Dunk and The Royalty have a lot to answer for.

I mean, this is a 'serious' (ok, semi-serious at best) entry into this ponderous log.  I've had enough vignette-ing for now, Lord knows you're probably all tired of reading about my private life anyway.  It's always been easier to write about these things than talk about them.  Not only am I male, but also an Autistic male; I have no hope of being able to participate in open discussion of what I really feel, hence my usual response of "whatever I think doesn't matter".  It never does to rock the boat anyway, and seeing as I'm usually the dissenter of the company, it's more trouble than it's worth.  

On the other hand, I type out this drivel because of two other factors: choice and ability.  Being a native speaker of the English Language with the power of literacy literally at my fingertips, I can write out what I like.  And my handwriting's abysmal, so Times New Roman is a good friend in a pinch at the best of times.  And hell, this is the Internet after all!  If you update your Facebook status or are a regular Twitter user, or heaven forbid BOTH then you're microblogging anyway.  As we can see I do all 3 but then again I don't have a Tumblr or a Flickr or some such.  I might have a PhotoBucket account, but I've forgotten the password and blah blah blah.  

So there we go.  Artificial Spleen vent when things don't go my way and a method of self-comforting when there's no more booze.  Nobody else is going to make me feel any better now, are they? (HURR HURR EMO)  Oh well, as long as you're entertained.

Anyway, enough already.  I just heard my brother enter the building (yes, my actual brother), and I'm going out later.  Life always finds a way.  There's always another way.  

Oh...And anyone who has reading III-V...I laughed it off.  HUSTLE.

Vignette V

You know how it is.  

After a while, you get tired of it all.  And you sit down.  And just for laughs, you make a list.  A list of all the things you want in someone you'd want to be with.  You know what I'm talking about.

You want to find someone who's smart, charming and funny, who has a voice you want to listen to, who's attractive...tall?  Why not.  Let's put tall down on that list too.  You know.  My list.  Someone who is at least prepared to make the effort to try and understand.  Someone who likes art and books and music, not necessarily like I do completely, more complementary.  I'd only get competitive anyway.  I guess long hair's on that list too.  Good manners, nice hands...whatever.  You know, someone you feel that you can trust.

And you look at the list again.  It ticks in the back of your head for a second and a beat passes...but you think nothing of it.  You put the list away and go about your business.

A week or so later, you find the list in a pile of papers.  Or maybe you don't.  Maybe you never wrote it down.  I don't.  I can't remember what reminded me.  A smell or a colour, perhaps.  A song or the feel of the wind.  Details.

Another beat passes and you suddenly realise that the person you've been having casual coffee mornings and the odd lunch out with at least once a week for the last 4ish months just ticked all your boxes.  Would you look at that.

In the end, because there's always an end, you find out that they exercise their right to choose to remain friends and only friends, a decision you abide by out of sheer respect  for their honesty.  What happens next is anyone's guess, but if history is our guide, they move on from this awkward episode, meet someone else for whom it all works out, settle down and gradually forget you, while you do not.  

Sorry, did I say you?  I meant me.

Social what now?

If you are reading this, it means you're on the Internet.  Hell, the fact that you can read it means that I'm on the Internet too.  Hi!  How are you?  What brings you here?  &c &c...

Whatever the Internet was originally conceived for, that premise is no longer the priority.  Military intelligence network?  A way of opening the Peer Review process out to potentially the entire world's Scientific community?  Mind Control?  Who knows!  Actually, a lot of that still goes on, unbelievably.  I know, right?  In the mid-ninties, something else happened.  Google was born.  Now the entire world could look for the entire world while comparing stocks and shares, or whatever serious people use the Internet for.  The order of the day in this rip-roaring 21st century, as I'm sure you're already aware as you read this from a holographic display in your flying car piloted by your robot butler, is Wikipedia, Instant Messaging, free Pornography, Twitter, reading newspapers, "Web logging" (Blog), and the real bread, onions and beer of this particular soliloquy (at least I think it's a soliloquy...): Social Networking.  Oh, and comics.

What is the point of "Social Networking" then?  Answers on the back of a postage stamp to the usual address as standard please (more on that story later).  All of the major sites (or more accurately, the ones I know about/can be bothered to remember), Bebo MySpace and of course the mighty Facebook all follow the same pattern.  You sign up, and depending on your real age and the service you're registering for give a real or fictionalised account of your date of birth, marital status, &c &c  You fill in your sundry details and put up a picture of yourself so you may attract the people you know and can recognise you by sight to your page/profile and attract people you don't know with your handsome face, interesting hobbies, witty quotes and so on and so forth.  This process continues until you can basically talk to anyone you want, and several people you don't want, with out actually speaking or committing word to page.  Brilliant!  All the hard work taken out of being sociable right?  Wrong.  You can't have a drink, be that coffee, alcohol or coffee with alcohol in it over the internet.  You cannot share an impromptu song, or the smell of perfume or a scribble on a napkin or anything like that.  Don't forget you can't make eye contact.  Very important.  Or a handshake, for that matter.  

Am I just being old fashioned?  I mean, sometimes it's the closest you can get to someone when they're on another continent, I guess.  Or it's the middle of the night, and you happen to be on an IM service.  False situations are created, I'm not saying they're all bad but they're still false.  Black and White, are they right or wrong?  OH GOD I DON'T KNOW IT'S A GREY AREA NOOOOOOOO *a-hem*

All said, I rather enjoy writing this crap.  I know I don't have a massive readership by any measure, but some people are reading this somewhere, and I don't care if on reading my Vignettes you think I'm some whiny emo kid suffering a terminal case of being an ass hat, because I am quite an ass hat and I rather feel as if I'm suffering a terminal case of heartbreak as well so go figure pal.  

Ironically enough, as an internet-based nerd with crippling social difficulties and a mental disability, I rather relish the challenge of meeting people in the flesh.  Yes, I have to listen to someone else's stories, share my precious personal space and usually spend refreshment for myself or them as well, but I rather like it on balance.  Hell may well be other people, but if heaven were peaceful I'd find a way to get myself kicked out.  The uneasy monster of dating is looming nearby, but what with my recent record I'm in no fit state to talk about it so openly.  Let's just say for now that I don't date.  

What about writing though, that ancient medium?  As much as these are words that you are reading that I have wrest into order, nothing beats pen (or pencil) on paper.  It's easily my best method of communication, the written word, which is how these blasted posts manage to be so long.  There's an almost unbroken brain-to-hand trail, unlike brain-to-mouth, which is tricky at best.  That vital second of thought makes all the difference for writing/typing/signing &c.  I rather like letters.  Who out there wants to correspond?  Handwritten as standard.  There is one particular person I really want to write to, but I'm actually frightened to ask, for once.  Sorry, I meant AS USUAL.  I haven't even seen them online for days, and the wonders of the Short Message Service haven't been effective.  Anyway.  If anybody out there who is reading this crap wants to get in touch, do it.  If you show me yours, I'll show you mine.  Of course I meant address, you prevert.  

Social Networking, Old School Stylee.

There's no place like...

After a night with my back line at HQ, I made the plunge earlier today.  Saddled up and ready to take the ever-shifting road system on, I took the Dawes out to cycle down to the armpit of the midlands.  You will never a more wretched hive of scum and villainy...than Derby!

That's right.  Urbs Natalis is once again Urbs Currens.  The bastards couldn't kill me, not when I have THIS to return to.  There's something vaguely comforting about almost being mown down by bright yellow taxis, the 01332 area code, the tacky pubs and clubs...I could go on.  The surrounding countryside knocks a lot of the rest of this country into a cocked hat, what with stunning vistas and thrilling valleys, quaint villages with their churches and so on and so forth.  At some point I will even venture out to the aforementioned tacky locales, populated as they are by the fleshpots of Derby...Ugh.  But you know, it's good to be back.  I mean, really good.

As we reached the end of the academic year, I rather began to run out of chutzpah.  Unsatisfactory housing, lack of food and a lot of upset, mostly emotional, do not agree with people of my delicate temperament.  Oh, best mark that down on your calendars or something, because I'm not going to refer to myself as delicate very often.  Capisce?  Anyway.  I think I got a bit cabin feverish towards the last few days, it still hasn't quite left me.  The cycling helps, as concentrating on the road leaves little room for anything else, and I get a break from the unbearable lightness of being, especially after the last week.  Those who know, know.  Some things...just never go my way.  

As far away from Norfolk as I am, I still have a lot left to do before I can really rest up.  I have to salvage my housing situation, which is bloody complicated to say the least.  Watch this space, eh?  I need to get in touch with several relevant parties and basically break to bad news, which won't be pretty.  I need to arrange the tour as well, and hopefully it will take me even further away from the East Anglian part of England, in a geographical sense anyway.  I almost don't want to go back at all now.  I really really don't.  This year has been one of the hardest I've had the fortune to survive, and I can quite comfortably say I don't relish the idea of any more like it, especially if next year will follow the same pattern.  I've never been so ill in all my life!  I genuinely thought I was going to die when a Ginsters Deep Fill Chicken & Bacon sandwich gave me food poisoning, the malicious bastard, and let's not forget my very own dalliance with the Swine Flu.  The upset, the failures, the backstabbing, the junior handshake clubs and financial ruin have taken an almost fatal toll on me.  Why would I want to put myself back into that situation?  Why do I have to?

But I will.  The time will come in September when we pack me up again and shift me across the country to Norwich, to see off the final year, the last hurrah.  And it really will be the last as well.  I plan to move up North and find my fortune not on stage, but as a Layclerk, hopefully with some sort of archive/library job on the side.  London would chew my up and spit me out, I don't have the wherewithal to cope with the Bog Smoke just yet, but one day I will.  It's just that I'm going to take my time over it.  

There are many people I don't want to leave behind from Norwich, and indeed Norfolk.  The people and places, on the whole (with some notable exceptions) are fine.  The situations I find myself in though, are deplorable.  Unfamiliarity breeds contempt, and I would rather soak up the radiation from the free wi-fi outside the Big Blue Coffee Shop than anywhere Norwich has to offer.  This is my home, as much as my mother has abandoned Derby for "Skeg Vegas", this is still my place.  You could accuse me of being small minded and having no ambition, but seeing as I have a desire to escape Norfolk I urge you to reconsider.  At a push, there are even people I would want to bring back here...both to add to the back line but also to stand at the forefront with me...but I'm getting ahead of myself.  

I'm glad I'm back.  Almost happy...(more on that story later)  The tour continues.  It's just nice to be able to have a rest again.

Vignette IV

It wasn't so much time that was the problem.  It was tone.  Or timbre.  I can never tell.  

In fact, that I can never tell is the problem.  What can I say?

God damn it.  I thought it was right but it wasn't.

"Lunch is so wonderfully simple, let's keep it that way"

Fair enough, I guess.  What to do now though?  

Die like a dog, and laugh it off.  Just like every other day then.

I wish I wasn't so alone.  Would it kill to hold my hand and make me feel like a person?

Shift expectations and change the world.

I'll be waiting for you with a grin as wide as the truth.